The blood moon hung low over the misty moor, casting an eerie glow that turned the world crimson. Seraph picked her way through the dense fog, her steps cautious as the ground squelched beneath her hooves. Ruins loomed ahead, the stone pillars crumbling under the weight of years, tangled with thick vines that twisted like reaching fingers. The air was thick with the scent of damp earth, and faint whispers seemed to drift from the shadows, as though the ruins themselves were telling secrets to the night.

Seraph’s heart beat with a quiet thrill. She’d heard tales of the Harvester—a being who held the power to bestow soul seeds, artifacts of lore, and remnants of ancient magic. Those who sought him were often warned of his fickle nature and his affinity for the strange, but Seraph was undeterred. The soul seeds held a mystery too compelling to ignore, and the promise of knowledge and power had driven her out on this ghostly night.

Through the haze, she finally saw him: a dark figure hunched among a patch of withered pumpkins, his form a silhouette against the bloody glow of the moon. He looked… tired, she realized, if such a thing was possible for a pumpkin-like creature. His shoulders drooped, and his scythe lay abandoned at his side, its blade glinting faintly in the ruddy light.

Gathering her courage, Seraph approached him, her hooves nearly silent on the damp ground. The Harvester turned slowly to meet her gaze, and his eyes—dark hollows set deep within his jack-o’-lantern face—flickered with a dim light. He regarded her for a long moment before nodding once, an invitation to speak.

“Harvester,” she said, her voice soft but resolute, “I’ve come seeking the soul seeds. I’ve heard they can be found and that you know the way.”

The Harvester sighed, a sound like the rustling of dead leaves, and nodded again. His voice was low and grating, like the scrape of steel against stone. “The soul seeds… they are not given lightly, nor found easily.” He motioned to the spirits scattered around him. “They come from them—each one a fragment of a soul, a piece of life harvested over many centuries ago.”

Seraph studied the souls carefully, noting how some were carved with intricate runes and others bore only faint scars. “How do I gain a seed? Is there a test?”

The Harvester tilted his head, considering. “A soul seed is born of sacrifice, courage, and purpose. You cannot merely take one; you must earn it, in ways you may not expect.” His gaze drifted over the misty moor, and his voice dropped to a murmur. “The moor is thick with spirits tonight, each one lingering for something they left behind. Find one such spirit, and offer it peace. Only then will you be worthy.”

Seraph nodded, her mind already racing as she took in his words. “A spirit… and I must help it find rest?”

The Harvester dipped his head, his eyes flickering brighter for an instant. “Yes. And remember, Seraph… kindness can be as sharp as any blade. It is often the only thing that can sever the bonds that tie a soul to this world.”

With that, he raised his scythe and held it out, the tip pointing toward a distant hill where the fog thickened ominously. “Go. But be wary. Not all spirits wish for rest, and not all will welcome your help.”

Seraph felt a chill despite the warmth of the blood moon. Bowing her head in thanks, she turned and walked into the moor, leaving the Harvester sitting silently among his pumpkins, watching her disappear into the mist. She did not look back, her thoughts fixed on the task ahead and the faint hope that, by night’s end, she might just be worthy enough to hold a soul seed of her own.

—---------

As Seraph left the Harvester’s pumpkin patch, his warning echoed in her mind: “Not all spirits wish for rest, and not all will welcome your help.” She pressed on into the moor, where the fog grew thicker, swirling like ghostly fingers. Every now and then, the eerie glow of the blood moon would pierce through the mist, casting elongated shadows that danced around her. She kept her head low, alert to any movement or whisper that might betray a spirit lingering nearby.

The ruins ahead were dark, almost blending into the shadows, save for the occasional glint of stone revealed in the moonlight. She stepped through a broken archway, the remnants of some ancient courtyard, when she spotted a narrow corridor that seemed to lead deeper into the forgotten structure. With her heart set on uncovering the path forward, she trotted inside, careful not to disturb the loose gravel underfoot.

Seraph froze as her hoof shifted the loose cobble beneath her, feeling the floor pulse with the telltale rumble of a hidden mechanism. A heartbeat later, intermittent flames roared up from vents in the floor, lighting the narrow corridor in an orange glow. The heat licked at her, a scorching reminder of how dangerous this place was. She backed away quickly, her mind racing.

“Courser be nimble…” she muttered under her breath, the old saying echoing in her mind. She considered jumping through the flames, but the flickering bursts of fire were unpredictable, and one wrong move could be disastrous. Caution was better than bravery, she reasoned, so she took a few steps back, determined to search for another way around.

Yet, after retracing her path through the twisting ruins, she found herself standing at the edge of the corridor once again. The mist hung heavy around her, and the silence seemed to taunt her indecision. No other entrance appeared, and frustration started to gnaw at her as the flames flared, reminding her that there was no easy way forward.

Seraph took a steadying breath, trying to calm her racing thoughts. She’d seen Viv handle a similar trap once before. She had stood right where she was now, carefully observing the trap with that same calm look she always wore, and then she’d… what was it she’d done?

A flicker of memory sparked in her mind. She remembered now—she had gathered rocks and thrown them over the trigger plates, using the weight to set off the trap’s timing without ever stepping into danger. It was a clever trick. She scanned the ground around her and spotted several loose stones near the base of a crumbling wall.

With a soft grunt, she nudged a rock toward the trap’s edge, her heart pounding as she flicked it forward with her hoof. The stone clattered across the cobblestones, and immediately, flames erupted where it fell, bright and hot, before vanishing again. She grinned, her heart leaping with a mixture of relief and pride. It was working.

She threw another stone, then another, each one landing in sequence along the floor and marking a safe path for her to follow. Slowly and carefully, she advanced, stepping only on the spaces she knew to be clear. Each step felt like a victory, her mind focused and her movements sure.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, Seraph reached the far end of the corridor, her coat singed but unharmed. She released a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding and glanced back at the corridor, feeling a thrill of accomplishment.

Ahead, the air grew thick with fog, and through it, she caught a glimpse of something faint and wispy—a figure, perhaps, lingering at the edge of her vision. Her pulse quickened. Could this be the spirit the Harvester spoke of? She took a step forward, her voice steady as she called out softly.

“Hello? I’m here to help you… to help you find peace.”

Seraph stepped cautiously through the room, her heart beating a steady rhythm as she drew closer to the faint figure. Its form wavered in the hazy light, like a reflection on water, half-real and half-dream. She could make out the shape of a humanoid—a ghostly, ethereal one—its tattered clothes drifting in an invisible breeze, its eyes hollow and tired.

The ghost turned its head to her, an ancient sadness etched in its face. Its gaze was distant, fixed on something unseen, as though it was staring through her into memories long past. Seraph swallowed, feeling a pang of sympathy. The Harvester’s words returned to her: “Each soul is tied to this world by something left unfinished.”

“Hello,” she said softly, dipping her head in a respectful greeting. “I’m here to help you, if you’ll let me.”

The spirit blinked, seeming to truly see her for the first time. Its eyes glowed faintly, filled with sorrow and longing. When it spoke, its voice was a whisper, carried on the faint wind. “I… I was supposed to protect them,” it murmured, its voice heavy with guilt. “But I failed. I couldn’t keep them safe. They trusted me, and I left them to the darkness…”

Seraph’s chest tightened. She took a gentle step forward, her voice calm but warm. “I know the weight of regret can be heavy. But staying here, trapped in that moment… it won’t help them, or you. Sometimes, forgiving ourselves is the hardest thing we can do.”

The ghost shook its head, its hair flowing like mist. “But I should have been stronger. I could have saved them if I’d only tried harder…”

Seraph stood quietly for a moment, listening to the pain in its voice. She thought of Teryn and Meyla, of the loyalty and protectiveness they felt for each other. A memory rose up, of Teryn confessing to her once, in a quiet moment, his own guilt over a friend lost in a cave-in long ago. She understood that kind of pain, the scars it left.

“Maybe the best way to honor them,” she suggested softly, “is to forgive yourself. To let them rest in peace, knowing you’ll carry their memory forward—not as a burden, but as a part of who you are.”

The ghost went silent, its head bowed, as though considering her words. A faint shimmer flickered around its feet, and it looked down, almost surprised, as if feeling the weight of its chains loosening. Slowly, it raised its head, meeting her gaze with something like relief.

“They wouldn’t want me to be stuck here grieving what could have been,” the ghost said, its voice softer, clearer now. “Thank you… for reminding me of that.” The sorrow in its eyes began to lift, replaced by a gentle warmth. The mist around it swirled, and its form grew fainter, the light in its eyes softening as it began to fade.

Seraph held its gaze until it disappeared, her heart both heavy and light. She felt a quiet strength settle within her as the moor grew silent once more. When the mist cleared, she noticed something small and glowing on the ground—a soul seed, its faint light pulsing in rhythm with her heartbeat.

After placing the pulsing seed in her pouch, Seraph made her way back through the ruins, her steps lighter than before. The mist parted as she moved, almost welcoming her back to the Harvester’s pumpkin patch, where he still sat among the withered gourds. His body lifted as she approached, his gaze catching on the soft light in her pouch.

“I see you carry your prize,” he said, his voice like brittle leaves on the wind. “The seed of a soul freed at last.”

Seraph stepped forward, her heart still thrumming with a mixture of pride and purpose. She carefully placed the soul seed down beside his scythe, almost like an offering, but her gaze was intent and steady. “That spirit… they’d been trapped here, lost in their memories and pain. They couldn’t move on until someone heard their story, and reminded them of life.” She took a breath, feeling the impact of the encounter weigh on her. “Helping them was… more meaningful than I expected. It made me realize how many others might be out here, lingering, needing someone to listen.”

The Harvester’s hollow eyes glowed faintly. He nodded, his face thoughtful as he watched her. “Many spirits do wander these moors. Each blood moon draws them close, like moths to flame, bound by regrets and unfinished stories.” He tapped the edge of his scythe on the ground, creating a soft, ringing note that seemed to vibrate through the earth. “Only the brave and the kind-hearted can guide them to rest, but few are willing to make such a journey.”

Seraph lifted her chin, feeling a newfound resolve settle within her. “Then let me do it. I want to help them—more spirits like the one I met tonight. I want to show them that they’re not alone in this.”

A smile softened the Harvester’s carved face. “Ah, you are a rare Courser, Seraph. Few seek to take on the burdens of others so freely.” He nodded, his gaze steady. “But if this is your path, the soul seeds can grant you the power to see deeper into the mist, to find spirits hidden even from the blood moon’s gaze.”

“Then… I’ll collect them,” Seraph replied, a spark of determination in her eyes. “Not for my sake, but for those who are still out there, waiting.”

The Harvester lifted his scythe and gestured to the vast, mist-covered moor. “So be it. The moor is rich with spirits tonight. Seek them, listen, and let the soul seeds be your guide.”

He turned back to his pumpkins, looking weary but content, his task complete for now. With a final glance at the Harvester, she stepped back into the mist, her steps more confident, her purpose clear. Tonight had given her more than just a glimpse of ancient magic—it had shown her the strength of compassion, and with it, she would guide as many spirits as she could, one soul seed at a time.